The Phone Call From Across the Hallway
by The Goliath Beetle
Summary: Lovino wakes up at 2.37 am to a phone call from Antonio, who ideally should be in bed with him, but is not. Antonio is sick, and Lovino tries very hard to keep his cool. -Spamano, Human AU, one-shot, sickfic-
_The Phone Call From Across the Hallway_

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 **A/N: I keep whining about how there aren't enough sickfics in the world, so here I am trying to do something about it. I hope you enjoy this :) Title is weird because my brain is drawing a blank. Sorry. Also, this is Antonio-centric because as everyone knows, I love beating him up for kicks, hahaha…that's not funny.**

 **Also I know nothing about medicine and medical practice and this is partially formed from my experiences and from quick Google searches.**

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Who the _fuck_ is calling him right now? It's late. Lovino doesn't know the time because his eyes are shut and he's 95% asleep, but he just knows it's too late for a phone call because overtired people know these things. It's that irritating Dean Martin song with that long, deep croon – _That's Amore_ – it's the ringtone Antonio picked out for –

Wait, that doesn't make sense. That's the ringtone Antonio set for his contact. Why is Antonio calling him in the middle of the night, especially when his boyfriend is supposedly sleeping _right next to him_?

Lovino forces his eyes open, which is hard considering his bed and his blankets are soft and the cold room only makes him want to cuddle under the covers, and it feels like an honest to goodness dream when he picks his phone up from the nightstand and sees that it is 2.37 am and the contact name _Bastard Antonio_ is flashing on the screen. He still doesn't answer it, because he takes a long, slow turn to check the spot next to him. Where his idiot boyfriend should have been is an empty mattress. It makes no sense. Is this really happening? Maybe Lovino shouldn't have had that hot chocolate before sleeping, it always gives him weird dreams.

The phone rings and rings and rings.

Slow, confused, Lovino answers it and puts it to his ear.

"Um, yeah?" he asks, because he isn't sure what's happening right now.

"Lovi?" Antonio asks, sounding really strange. Lovino can't put his finger on it, except that it's weird and deflated and un-Antonio-like. "Can you please come to the kitchen?"

"…Okay." Lovino cuts the call, and then pauses for another second. What if this is some elaborate practical joke? Maybe it's a surprise. His birthday is coming up, after all, and Antonio loves these over-the-top gestures. He can't put it past Antonio, but Lovino just has a bad feeling, so he pushes himself out of bed and stumbles in the darkness towards the bedroom door, using his phone as a flashlight.

The house is too quiet, and Lovino – in this strange, half-asleep daze – almost expects a murderer to jump out at him from the shadows. But at the end of the hallway, he kitchen door is wide open and the lights are all on.

Antonio is sitting at the table.

No, not sitting.

He is sprawled at the table, leaning back against one chair with his feet up on another. It takes a moment for Lovino to register it. There's a cup beside him, and on the platform, a packet of milk and a bottle of honey. Antonio himself looks…sort of high. His green eyes are halfway shut, his skin is pasty and in one hand he holds his mobile and lets his arm dangle like the iPhone's weight is making his bones sink.

"Antonio?" Lovino asks, because it's just starting to occur to him that something might be actually wrong.

His boyfriend raises his head lazily. "Lovi, hey," he murmurs, and his voice is so frail and soft, Lovino finds himself instantly waking up. "So, I think I'm sick."

"God, what the fuck?" and in three swift steps, Lovino has closed the distance between them and put a hand on Antonio's forehead. His skin is frighteningly hot, and Lovino recoils, snatching his hand back and placing it on his pajama bottoms to cool it down.

Antonio takes a deep, tiring breath and starts to talk. "I couldn't sleep no matter what I did. I felt cold and hot and miserable and my head hurt and my nose was all clogged. I thought I would make myself some warm milk with honey. It helps Feli sleep so I thought it would help me too. And I made it for myself and then I turned around and suddenly everything got super hazy and I just knew I was going to pass out if I didn't sit down so…here I am. Luckily I had my phone with me. I honestly don't think I can make it back to bed." And with that, he falls silent and closes his eyes, letting out a loud, defeated sigh.

Well, fuck, fuck. It's not that Lovino doesn't know how to deal with the situation. Feli has fallen sick before, entirely depending on Lovino for sustenance. It's just that Antonio doesn't fall sick often – almost never, really – and Lovino is still too tired to think this is actually happening. Even though he knows it's real. You can't make up a fever that high.

Finally, Lovino glances to the cup of milk in front of Antonio. It's untouched. "You didn't even eat dinner, did you?" he asks because he can distinctly recall Antonio moving around his food on his plate and nibbling at it moodily. Lovino had assumed he hadn't liked the pasta tonight, and although he hadn't called Antonio out on it, he'd fallen asleep in a sour mood. In hindsight, he should have just asked. "How long have you been feeling this shitty?"

"I've been feeling sort of down since lunch yesterday…but it wasn't _this_ bad."

"Okay, here's what: you drink that milk. I'll be right back with a thermometer."

"I feel like I'm going to throw up if I take a sip."

"So then just wait. I'll be right back." To reassure Antonio – and himself, maybe – Lovino squeezes his boyfriend's hand. Damn, he's so glad the idiot thought to carry his phone with him, if only to check Facebook updates or whatever. Lovino can't imagine Antonio sitting all alone like this in the kitchen, unable to move back to the bedroom, all because Lovino was asleep and Antonio's phone was not with him.

He gets back with a thermometer and aspirins. "You really can't take this on an empty stomach, just try having something." He gently taps the cup. "At least finish half of it. Come on, Antonio."

Antonio closes his eyes and scrunches his face. "Nooo, Lovi, please, I'll be sick."

In response, Lovino pushes the thermometer into his mouth. Half of Antonio's problem is that he hasn't eaten enough food. And that is also half of Lovino's problem, because taking aspirins on an empty stomach isn't a good idea – Lovino has heard enough horror stories about patients who've had internal bleeding or some shit because they didn't eat before they swallowed pills.

"Motherfucking shit!" Lovino exclaims, ignoring the fact that those cuss words, in that order, didn't make sense. _104 F._

"How much is it?" Antonio mumbles.

It's enough to get Lovino's heart racing, that's what. He makes a snap decision then, and fuck if anyone tries to stop him. Especially Antonio. He isn't going to hear it.

"We're going to the hospital."

Antonio's eyes fly open instantly, crying out something incoherent in protest. Lovino knows Antonio hates hospitals. Not like anyone likes them: they're creepy and they always remind Lovino of bad TV dramas and death. (There is no in-between.) Antonio has hated them ever since he had an appendicitis surgery when he was thirteen. But, well, tough.

"Lovi, please…" and then Antonio makes a face as though he's trying to gather his thoughts, which his fever-addled brain isn't helping, before finishing with, "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. Just a flu, you know."

"Yeah, I'll believe it when a doctor tells me that."

"You really don't –"

"Shut the fuck up, Antonio, you nearly passed out." With that, Lovino storms off to the bedroom to change and brush and wash his face. He picks up a jacket for Antonio too because he's quite sure his boyfriend would appreciate it. Antonio's faded blue t-shirt and grey track pants aren't too bad to be seen in, considering he has a moronically life-threatening fever and they're going to a hospital and not the Buckingham fucking Palace, but still.

When Lovino enters the kitchen again, Antonio sighs exhaustedly an attempts to stand, before swaying and tilting sideways.

"Antonio!" Lovino yells grabbing him by the shoulders. _Please be conscious, please be conscious, please be –_

His eyes flutter open, looking dazed. "Fainting is so weird, Lovi. Have you ever fainted before?"

 _I'm about to if you don't stop scaring the fucking life out of me_ , Lovino thinks but doesn't say. Instead he steadies Antonio against him and helps him wear the jacket.

"No, it's too hot for jackets. I'm just feeling so _hot_."

Both of them would have cracked some sexual innuendo at that had it not been for the current situation. Antonio blinks, looking slightly more doped-up than before. "I can remember every detail. I feel like everything is getting pixilated. No, not pixilated, but you know how they print newspaper pictures? Those little coloured dots that come together to make an image? I feel like that, like I can _see_ everything breaking up into little coloured dots that sort of sparkle? Or like, I don't know, what's a synonym for sparkle?"

"I think this is what 'delirious' means," Lovino says, more to himself than to Antonio. His boyfriend doesn't even respond to him.

"And then it all sort of turns, like, blue-grey or something and then…then I don't know, I'm aware of falling and you catching me. So it's not like I passed out, more like I _almost_ passed out. For the second time tonight. That's not so good, is it?"

Lovino grunts a response because he's too busy grabbing car keys, house key, wallet, mobile phone, and of course, Antonio, stuffing whatever he can into his jeans' pockets and supporting Antonio by throwing his boyfriend's arm around his shoulders and grabbing his waist. This would be funny if it wasn't so scary. Lovino is trying to push away horrific images of Antonio dying or being diagnosed with something terminal. _It's just a bad fever, that's it,_ he tries to tell himself, but a part of him is already drafting Antonio's eulogy. Lovino almost starts crying right there, but fuck, he really can't afford to be such a loser right now, he needs to be the one in charge!

Their stupid building doesn't have a stupid elevator so Lovino and stupid, unwell, perfect Antonio have to somehow climb down, which is a literal feat because Antonio's skin is almost actually grey and somehow it feels even hotter than before. When his head falls against the passenger's seat of the car, Antonio closes his eyes and moans softly. "Lovi, my head feels like…like I feel hungover. Except I've had dishwashing soap instead of alcohol so it's somehow even worse…"

"Just breathe easy and rest," Lovino insists, because really, what more can he even say? "You're going to be just fine." Good thing it's now 3.00 am and the roads are empty, because Lovino is rash-driving like the Italian stereotype that he is because fuck, fuck, fuck, his perfect, sweet, beautiful Antonio is sick and there isn't a stop sign or red light than can prevent him from driving well above the speed limit.

Because Antonio is swaying and woozy, it's actually fairly easy to attract a lot of attention. The second the hospital staff see both of them, Antonio is whisked off in a gurney, _a fucking gurney_ , and Lovino has to lean with one hand against the wall and take deep breaths because this feels like one of those medical dramas and Jesus, those things never end happily.

He takes out his phone and sends a bunch of incoherent, desperate texts to his brother.

 **Antonio's in hospital dont freak out**

 **okay i am freaking out**

 **it should be nothing**

 **god omg feli what if its something bad**

 **what if he dies**

 **what will i do without him**

Lovino has to get up at this point, go to the toilets, lock himself in a cubicle and have a quiet, private little cry. Ten minutes later, he checks his phone and Feli still hasn't answered, because like any sensible person, he is asleep at 3.00 am.

He spends the next ten minutes in the waiting room playing Candy Crush and discreetly wiping away his tears. He's crying because he can't pass this stupid level. That's it. Antonio's fine. In fact, this time tomorrow, they'll be laughing about this little scare. Yeah, exactly.

A young, cheerful looking man comes up to him in a doctor's coat and glasses. "Are you with Antonio Fernandez Carriedo?" It's a stupid question because Lovino is the only one in this waiting room, and he sure as hell isn't sitting here for the kicks.

"Yeah," he says, raising his head.

The doctor shakes his hand. "I'm Dr. Alfred Jones."

"Is he going to be okay?"

"Antonio's going to be fine, it's just a really bad flu bug in the air."

"His temperature was 104! A flu can't actually do that, can it?"

Alfred looks slightly uncomfortable. "It could also be pneumonia. We are going to conduct more tests, but really, I don't think there's anything you need to seriously worry about. Do you want to see him?"

"Hell yes."

Antonio…actually looks okay. He's sitting up in bed staring curiously at the IV dripping into his arm, his skin still awfully pasty. At least he isn't swaying or about to pass out. It's a definite improvement. And he smiles when Lovino enters, albeit tiredly.

"You fucking idiot," Lovino mutters before kissing him on the cheek. He would really, really like to kiss him on the mouth but that might make him sick, and if both of them are sick, who's going to take care of them? Antonio seems to understand, because although he pouts, he doesn't complain. "You really scared me, I mean, you don't even _know._ " And then, as gently as he can, Lovino pulls him into a hug. Antonio smells of sweat but also of cinnamon. He always somehow smells spicy like that. His body just radiates sickly heat but it's still so, so reassuring to hold him and be held back. Lovino actually doesn't know what he would do if something bad were to happen to Antonio. He can't even think about it without freaking out.

"Ti amo, bastard," Lovino mumbles into his ear.

"Aww, you're getting all mushy and cute," Antonio replies, and Lovino pulls back and feigns slapping his head. Antonio giggles, sounding raspy. "I love you too, Lovi. And don't look so scared, I feel better, trust me."

"Yeah, yeah, just go to sleep, please."

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 **Omg loviiii! Is big brother toni okay!**

 **Don't worry it'l be fine! which hospital! do u want me to come?**

Lovino has always thought Feli uses too many exclamation marks. Rubbing the exhaustion from his face, he texts back:

 **No it's cool we're back home. i'll update u later on. ttyl**

It's almost seven in the morning and Antonio's fever has reduced to something more controllable and Dr Alfred Jones has allowed them to go home and promised he'd ring them up with the results of the tests, but since Antonio has made such a quick recovery, it's really going to be nothing serious. It's all meant to be reassuring, Lovino knows, but he's still wired from the night he's had, so even with Antonio lazily chatting with him about Winnie the Pooh and Michael Jackson and god knows whatever else, all Lovino can think is, _you nearly died tonight_ , which isn't even close to true, but who the fuck cares, it's just how he feels.

"Antonio, just shut up and rest."

Antonio is tucked into bed and between conversing away about nothing in particular, he is Snapchatting Francis and Gilbert and telling them about his hospital adventure. Lovino snatches the phone from his hand. "Just because your fever is down to 101 doesn't mean you're recovered, okay? Jesus, 101 is still pretty high. Go the fuck to sleep."

It's almost funny when Antonio pouts so emphatically, but then sighs and relents, sinking into the covers and shutting his eyes. "Thanks for being so amazing tonight, Lovi," he mumbles before he drifts off. "I'm sorry about the whole thing."

"About falling sick?" Lovino asks, kicking off his shoes and sinking down next to him.

"Mmh."

"You're such an idiot," is all Lovino says to quell the needless apology, and maybe to someone else it wouldn't be enough, but Antonio smiles regardless. He's asleep after that, but despite his exhaustion, Lovino can only stare at the ceiling and at the sunrise trying to stream through the drawn curtains.

Lovino thinks morbid things about which one of them will die first and how the other will react, and also how will they die (Lovino is convinced he's going to die of a heart attack while cooking pizza at the age of 86. He doesn't know why, he just has this feeling…) But these things just depress him further.

"Don't do anything like that again," he whispers to the man sleeping next to him, curling up to Antonio's side and placing his head on his boyfriend's chest. It's too hot like this; Antonio's skin is still burning. But it still feels a lot safer, and Lovino's mind isn't going completely hysterical now.

Neither of them stir for the next few hours.

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 **A/N: Why did I do this.**

 **A fact: I actually have been in a situation where I have called up my mom from the kitchen in the middle of the night because I was too sick to move, ahahaha...fun times.**

 **Ahh, but you know, I've missed these Spamano babies :') I will always love them, even though I don't think I can write much more for them. That one year of writing insane Spamano fics was the most fun I've had writing fanfiction** _ **ever**_ **, which for me is saying a lot, because I've written a shit ton of (really bad) fanfiction over the course of several years.**

 **Also, I'm a lot more active on tumblr these days so feel free to follow me at thegoliathbeetle (I would be very honoured if you did!)**

 **Anyway, thanks for reading. Please ignore any medical inconsistencies. And please review :3**

 **Love,**

 **GB.**


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